Paradigm Shift
by Apapazukamori
Summary: No one knows how to hurt you better than an old friend. BL Content. Shinou/Sage, Shinou/Murata.


**Paradigm Shift**

"Stop _calling_ me that."

"My temple, my country, my Sage. I fail to see how I'm incorrect."

Circular, unending, constant; all words that could be used to describe the relationship between the first king of Shin Makoku and the man who had stood at his side as the Great Sage. Unfortunately, they were also words Murata would use to characterize their bouts of arguing. No one, living or dead, could drive him to the level of sheer exasperation that the Shinou could. And the man knew it; probably took pride in it, as he was wont to do when he excelled. Especially if that meant beating "his" Sage.

As much as he preferred the use of his given name, Murata could have compromised; he could have accepted the shade referring to him by his title. They had argued about that as well, though the row that followed Murata's suggestion that if the Shinou hated this life's name so much, he could call him "Highness" like everyone else did had been absolutely worth it for the initial explosion of outrage. If the Shinou was going to goad him into losing his temper, then said spirit would do so as well, and with many more fireworks.

But fireworks burned if you stood too close while setting them off, and, smarting, Murata staunchly refused to offer that the Shinou could call him by his first name, since no one else did.

"I'm not _your_ anything," he shot back, following the script; never deviating from the downward spiral. "I don't need you."

Always a somewhat weird child, Murata had never experienced the rebellious teenage phase all his friends and classmates had. No doubt his parents had breathed sighs of relief. Perhaps they thought they had earned a quiet adolescence by suffering through their son's rocky childhood.

Now he wondered if he wasn't having it after all, just with a different sort of connection.

The Shinou's lip twisted. "Oh? If I am so obsolete, can you honestly say that you, my Sage, are not just the same? Does anyone actually _need_ you?"

Only you. Murata never answered the question -- or any in a similar vein -- but the fight generally left him at this part in the scene. When he came face-to-face with the reminder that his role had ended. He would die with regrets, when the time came. Only natural for one with no path laid out in front of him. He no longer had a direction and he would be the first to admit that it scared him.

And he loved every terror-stricken moment. More than anything. Through his memories, Murata had experienced every worldly pleasure that could be had. Sex and drugs, fame and fortune, a fast car on a road with no speed limit and a quiet stroll along an empty beach -- barefoot, naturally. None of them compared with waking up every morning and staring at the ceiling as he asked himself "well, now what?"

Once upon a time, the man whose soul he had protected through the ages would have understood that feeling. Strange, how time could turn even the most stubborn people into their own polar opposites.

As always, the Shinou equated his deflation with a defeat, stepping in to play the magnanamous victor. "You will always have me," he soothed, cupping his chin with a ghostly hand. The solidity of the fingers brushing his jaw served to indicate just how generous the spirit felt; Murata knew how much effort it took to concentrate his form into something that could actually lift his face rather than rely on a faint, whispery feeling and the insinuation of what Murata should do in return.

This -- morning? afternoon? evening? Time never moved in the innermost room and was so hard to keep track of -- this time, if Murata so chose, he could go so far as to imagine living warmth in the Shinou's touch. The shade tilted his head back, bringing the line of his gaze up so Murata couldn't use the torchlight to his advantage. Not that he did that much, anymore. Unlike the rest of their associates, the Shinou had discovered the tactic was as much of a tell as a tool and had adjusted his own strategy as necessary. Once he had realized, Murata had forced himself to give the man nothing but clear lenses, and eyes as opaque as ever.

"I shall never leave you alone," the Shinou promised, and Murata closed his eyes, shivering from both the reassurance and warning implicit.

Murata turned his cheek into the hand and imagined the roughness of sword callouses against his skin. Even his peers, in their fits of pique, had never really meant it when they said 'I hate you.'

"I know," he replied with a sigh, his rebellion quelled, at least for the moment. 


End file.
